


Peldor Joi, Doctor Bashir

by 28ghosts



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Accidental Time Travel, Character's Consciousness Time Travels - Future Self in Relationship with Unexpected Person, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-17 07:59:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17556422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/28ghosts/pseuds/28ghosts
Summary: The Bajoran Council of Vedeks insists that Deep Space Nine's temple host the Orb of Time during the Peldor Festival celebrating the tenth year since Cardassia ceded control of the station. What could go wrong?





	Peldor Joi, Doctor Bashir

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Winterly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterly/gifts).



On the ground level of the Promenade, twelve Bajorans in ceremonial dress proceed around four guards carrying, between them, a wooden box. The early-comers who recognize it bow their heads in recognition while others ignore it.

Julian Bashir, CMO of the station Deep Space Nine, and the station’s commander, Kira Nerys, stand on the second floor, watching. “I don’t like it,” Kira says. “I still think it’s an unnecessary risk, and the Peldor Festival is big enough of a draw to the station as it is…”

“I don’t disagree.”

“Still.” Kira sighs and settles her hands on her hips. “I guess it’s an honor.”

“Hard to say no to those,” Julian says agreeably.

“It’s weird that it’s just...there. Being marched past Quark’s, the Orb of Time.”

Julian hasn’t the slightest idea what to say, so he just watches as the Bajoran procession continues on their way towards the temple. While Sisko had been in command of the station, the senior staff had more interactions with the Bajoran Orbs of the Prophets than anyone would have liked, some of them more memorable than others. For his part, Julian had been horrifically, selfishly relieved when the Orb of Contemplation had been finally returned to Bajor. At least the Council of Vedeks hadn’t sent _that_ Orb for the duration of the festival.

It’s the tenth Peldor Festival since Cardassia’s surrender of DS9 to the Federation, though, and as such, the vedeks had insisted, despite Kira’s protests regarding security. For Bajoran visitors and residents as well as scattered others who worshipped the Prophets, it was a significant gesture -- a chance to worship in front of one of the Orbs was no small thing, and the Orb of Time no less.

Julian settles with his forearms resting on the railing. It’s early, but Quark’s is already bustling with customers, most of them drinking cocktails that Quark has been marketing as invented specifically for the Peldor Festival: alva wine mixed with fizzwater, gin and kava juice, raktajino spiked with jumja liquer. “Ro is going to have her hands full,” he says.

“You’re telling me. I think the holding cells are half-full already. At this rate, we’re going to have to send the drunk and disorderlies down to Bajor on a shuttle.”

Julian grins. Kira isn’t wrong. The Peldor Festival always drives DS9’s security team to the point of madness, and this year promises to be busier than ever.

Not that it matters much to Julian one way or another. He won’t have much time for celebrating. More than two-thirds of his staff is Bajoran, so he and a few volunteers from his non-Bajoran staff will be working long hours to let their colleagues spend most of their time enjoying the festival. With luck, there won’t be much for the Infirmary to do besides sober up anyone who’s overindulged to the point of medical danger, so the work won’t be too hard. But his staff appreciates it.

Kira leans on the railing next to him. “I should tell Ro to menace Quark about some of that advertising language,” she says. “I’m positive his jumja is straight from the replicator, not the…” She squints to read one of the banners hanging over Quark’s bar. “‘Verdant fields of Korra.’ I don’t think that’s even a real place on Bajor.”

“He’s going to tell Ro that’s what he named the replicators,” Julian suggests, and Kira actually laughs at that.

It would have been hard to imagine when he’d first arrived on the station that one day he’d be able to make Kira laugh at all, let alone with him rather than at him. Then again, that wasn’t the sort of thing he’d have liked to think about back then. He’d been too giddy just to finally be stationed somewhere, certain that here, at least, his secret would be safe.

Now, though, he’s comfortable enough to knock their shoulders together companionably. “Do you think he’ll bust out the latinum-edged renewal scrolls again?”

“He’d better not.”

“Probably, then.”

Kira sighs and says, “Probably.”

* * *

The first day of the festival is more or less uneventful. It’s not station noon before a team ends up summoned to Quark’s to rouse a handful of over-eager revellers, and Julian makes sure to scold them on double-checking the alcohol content of whatever they order before they can do real damage to themselves. The second day is much the same, though at some point in mid-afternoon, a nurse pages him into the front room, where Dr. Ida is in full uniform despite the fact he’s supposed to be off and enjoying the festival.

Julian tells Ida as much, and the Bajoran grins. “Take a few hours, Dr. Bashir. I’ll cover until the end of your shift at least. Go get a drink, flirt with some visitors. Don’t come back until you’ve burned a renewal scroll with all your worries on it!”

Solin, the nurse at the front desk, inclines his head. “We’ll comm you if there are any surprises, Doctor,” he says.

In truth, there’s not much about the Peldor Festival that he hasn’t seen before several years before, but it’s a nice gesture from his staff nonetheless. He manages a smile and looks to Solin. “Why, Nurse, I have the sense this was a conspiracy.”

“Perhaps,” Solin says, inclining his head the barest amount. It’s as much of an admission of guilt as Julian’s likely to get.

“Well, then, if you insist,” Julian says. “Thank you. I’ll make the most of it.”

* * *

It’s odd how normal the Peldor Festival seems. Then again, Julian’s first Peldor Festival had been...more eventful than any other that had followed. And barring another outbreak of Zanthi Fever, hopefully that will have been the most interesting Peldor Festival of his life.

The festival this year is much the same as it had been the last year and the year before that. There are more visitors, more stalls and decorations, than there had been in the first few years, or during the height of the Dominion War. After the war had ended, though, and Kira had taken command, the Peldor Festival had become far more of an event. Simply having a Bajoran in command of what had once been a Cardassian labor camp was no small thing, and the station was never busier than during the festival.

Which meant, of course, that in a week or so there would be a sudden uptick in Infirmary visits while the station residents finally got sick with whatever new viruses and infections they’d been introduced to by the crowds. But that was standard, too.

After ten years on DS9, there’s an awful lot that Julian has come to view as predictable: the Infirmary visits a week after big events. Fights suspiciously breaking out on the Promenade just when someone’s about to beat the house at dabo, and Quark insisting he’s not involved. And now _loud_ the Peldor Festival always is.

It is, Julian grants upon reaching the Promenade, distinctly busier and louder than it had been the year previous. According to Ro, their number of visitors has already increased by 17 percent over last year, and the number of visitors expected for just the last day of celebrations alone is expected to be even more than that. There are lights and flowers strung in nearly every hall. Twice before the festival had even started, Julian had had to ask security to escort drunken revellers out of his hall in the habitat ring. He hadn’t begrudged them their celebrations, but he’s not twenty-seven even more. Even with his augmentations, he does need a certain amount of sleep most nights.

Julian wanders the upper level of the Promenade, hands tucked behind his back, picking his way through inebriated revelers and visitors too busy gawking to pay attention to where they’re going. The lower level is even more crowded, but it’s easier to navigate. Julian is idly wondering if he can get away with returning to his quarters to do some reading rather than pretending to enjoy the festival when he hears a familiar voice over the chatter.

“Oh, I was just -- Doctor!”

It’s Kira’s voice from just a few feet away, in front of one of the shops. Julian turns and nods in acknowledgement.

“Dr. Bashir, good to see you,” Kira says with just a touch too much enthusiasm to really mean it. She’s with an older Bajoran man wearing ceremonial robes who looks nonplussed to have been interrupted.

Julian grins. Vedeks love talking to Kira, usually keen to ingratiate themselves. Kira says it’s because they think she has far more sway with the Federation than she actually does. He considers waving and walking off as quickly as he can, but instead he cuts towards them through. Kira is visibly relieved to see him coming.

“This is Vedek Syva. Vedek, this is the station’s Chief Medical Officer, Dr. Julian Bashir.”

The vedek offers his hand with the restrained distaste of someone recently informed that Humans greet each other by shaking hands. “A pleasure, Dr. Bashir.”

“Likewise, Vedek. Peldor joi.”

That gets him a hint of a smile. “Peldor joi,” Syva says. “Doctor, we were just about to go to the temple. Would you care to join us?”

“Only if it’s not to much trouble,” Kira interjects.

Kira’s expression says something more like ‘please, he’s talking my ear off,’ so Bashir nods. “I’d be happy to. Dr. Ida insisted on taking my place in the Infirmary this afternoon, so I have at least a bit of time to spare.”

“Very well,” says Syva. “They’ve just cleared out the temple after first services, so there should be few people present. I thought it would be an appropriate time to pay my respects.” Syva continues delivering his thoughts in a pleasant monotone as they wander through the station towards the Temple, and Julian nods and makes polite noises of recognition when appropriate.

It isn’t until they’re walking into the temple that Julian remembers distantly, as if from another life, that the storefront they had met in front of had once been Garak’s.

* * *

The temple is empty.

The guards outside it look suitably nervous and vigilant for Julian’s taste, so he forces himself to relax a little as Kira leads Syva by the elbow up to the stand where the Orb is resting in its case. The barest hint of white light ekes out of the joints of the case, a persistent reminder of what, exactly, it contains.

Syva and Kira talk for awhile, standing near the Orb. Julian more or less figures that he’s done his fair share of listening to the vedek and sits down in one of the wooden pews by himself. It’s a nice space, he supposes. He even finds himself relaxing a bit.

And then -- of course -- there’s a shock of noise from outside the temple, and before Julian can even stand, there’s a man charging through the doors, straights towards the Orb, shouting something--

* * *

First, Julian remembers:

Trying desperately to come up with something useful to say; trying to believe this won’t be the last time they see each other: “I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

And Garak, distant and cynical, laying his hand on Julian’s shoulder: “I’d like to think so. But who can say -- we live in uncertain times.”

* * *

And then, Julian must be dreaming:

He’s leaning bodily against a stone building. It is bright, so bright out, and his head swims. His body feels...stiff, maybe. There’s sweat running down his back, but he’s used to it. This is Cardassia, he knows somehow; this is Cardassia with its low and hazy horizons, its gray deserts. He loves it, in his own way.

“Julian!” And he loves that voice, too.

It _must_ be a dream; Julian’s body moves of his own accord, feels a fond rush of exasperation that isn’t his. “Elim, it’s alright.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. There’s a sharp ache at his temples, and Garak’s hand on his forehead is a welcome, cooling presence. “I just wanted some air.”

“You’re still not well, my dear.” Garak presses his fingers to Julian’s neck, checking his pulse, and he tsks. “Doctors truly make the worst patients. Come back inside.”

“I just want this fever to go away,” Julian hears himself grouse. He raises his arm, though, and Garak slides his arm around Julian’s back; Julian drops his arm over Garak’s shoulders and lets himself lean.

His body rests easily against Garak’s. Too easily. The part of him that’s _now_ , that should be in a temple on DS9, roils with confusion; the rest of him, though, leans into the touch, comforted by Garak’s cool skin, the familiarity of it.

Inside is cool and dark, and Garak helps him lie himself down on a wide, low bed. He bends down to brush a kiss over Julian’s forehead, and Julian feels himself grin.

“You romantic.”

“Rest, Doctor.” Garak cups his face in both hands, and his kiss is lingering and unexpectedly sweet. “Rest.”

* * *

Julian is back in the temple.

Two guards have just thrown open the doors; Kira is sitting in one of the pews, her face in her hands. The Orb’s display is closed, the vedek standing beside it.

He’s on DS9. It’s the Peldor Festival. He’s not searching for someone in the dark; he’s not on _Cardassia_...

Julian manages to sit down. He rests his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands, and tries to breathe evenly.

“Is everyone -- is everyone okay?” someone asks. There’s some back-and-forth between the guards and Vedek Syva. Julian can’t quite pay attention to it. From within the cabinet, the Orb’s light still seeps out, and for an awful moment, he hates it. He wants to knock the cabinet over himself, wants to tear it apart for making him feel like he does right now, hollow and alone--

The anger is easier to deal with than disorientation. Julian scrubs one hand through his hair and tries to focus on the here and now.

“I need two guards to take that man to the holding cells,” Kira is saying from where she stands between the rows of pews. She’s in full Commander-mode, serious, her shoulders squared. Two guards have the Bajoran intruder held up under his shoulders, though he’s unconscious. “Ro, double the guards posted here, but I want the new guards in off-duty dress. They don’t need to be undercover, but I don’t want the temple surrounded by people in uniform. This _is_ a holiday, and we don’t have any reason to believe this was anything other than a one-off attack. Any questions?”

One of the security officers asks if the holding cells should have more guards posted too. After a moment, Kira agrees and dismisses them. She and Ro talk for a quiet few minutes, and then there are footfalls approaching Julian.

Kira rests a hand on his shoulder. _Right where Garak had put his hand when he’d said goodbye_ , the part of him still fixated on the Orb reminds him. “Are you alright?”

“I think so.”

She nudges his shoulder. He moves over so she has room to sit. “This was exactly what I was worried about,” she says, quietly enough that Syva won’t be able to hear her.

“It could have been worse,” Julian says. “We could have ended up on the Enterprise again.”

Kira laughs for too long at that, but some of the tension in the room seems to decrease. Eventually she claps him on the shoulder and leaves. Julian stares at the Orb in its case for awhile. He almost wishes Syva would say something. What did everyone else see? Surely not everyone was on Cardassia with him?

After awhile, he stands up and leaves, too. He has to get back to the Infirmary eventually. Maybe the caffeine from a raktajino will help.

* * *

The lower level of the Promenade has grown even busier. There’s something reassuring about the crush of people and the ungovernable din that comes from so many people trying to make themselves heard over one another in such close quarters. He’s here with them on the Promenade, not on a planet five light-years away. It takes nearly a quarter-hour just to get his order in at the bar, and when Quark brings him his drink, he winks.

“One raktajino,” Quark says, sliding it across the table. “I spiked it with jumja for your own good, and on the house. You look positively miserable, Doctor, and this is supposed to be a happy festival! Cheer up, why don’t you?”

Julian sighs and takes a sip. If the alcohol goes to his head, he can always use a stim once he’s back at the Infirmary. “Thanks, I suppose.”

“My pleasure. Now get out of here before you bring the mood down.”

The people, the noise -- it’s all a reminder that this here is real. It’s just him in his head, idly deciding to wander past the craft displays and food stalls. He should pick something up for Miles and Keiko and the kids, send it on one of the shuttle-ships, maybe.

With no one for company, he walks and drinks slowly, listening to the chatter. It’s mostly groups of people that he passes, mostly tourists, though there’s a few other member of Starfleet wandering about in uniform. He even spots a Cardassian and Bajoran couple, looking a little bashful as they walk along, arm-in-arm. Julian doesn’t stare, but he does smile to himself. Maybe Quark poured him more than just a single serving of liqueur, or perhaps he just feels a bit sentimental.

Bits and pieces of the vision keep coming back to him unbidden. Maybe because it had been so long since he’d thought of Garak on the station; it’s been at least year or two, maybe more, since he last wandered into the replimat and caught himself looking for Garak.

At least it’s not been a year or two since he’d last heard from Garak, although come to think of it, Garak had been the last to write him. A month or two ago, surely? Julian finishes his raktajino; he has to wait in line to have his cup dereplicated. No, it was longer than that since he and Garak had exchanged messages. Garak had written him a lengthy update on the state of Cardassia’s agricultural system, and Julian had wanted to take the time to consider it and write an equally lengthy reply back. But then there’d been that outbreak of a Gamma Quadrant virus causing hallucinations and seizures, and there’d been a minor skirmish on the Promenade that he’d helped Ro break up, but he’d gotten dragged into testifying on the record for it -- he never had written back, had he?

He should do that. As he heads back to the Infirmary to let Dr. Ida rejoin the festivities, he tells himself that as soon as his shift at the Infirmary ends, he’ll do that.

* * *

As soon as Julian’s shift at the Infirmary ends, Julian decides that what he really needs is a drink. The Promenade is packed, but it’s only a few minutes before he spots Kira waving to him from a table in a corner. He has to get closer before seeing that Syva is sitting with her. He looks livelier than he had at the Temple, perhaps because he’s wearing civilian dress, rather than a vedek’s heavy robes.

“Sit with us, Doctor,” says Syva. He pats the top of the table. There’s a carafe of what looks like alva wine between Kira and the vedek, and Syva has a distinctly un-vedek-like flush running up his throat. Kira nods in agreement.

Why not? Feeling restless and unsettled is usually more bearable with company. “If you don’t mind,” Julian says.

“We insist,” Kira says. She pours him a slim, tall glass from the carafe and passes it to him. It just barely doesn’t slosh all over the table, and Julian hides a smile. He’s never seen Kira this inebriated, and he’s glad it’s apparently a celebratory sort of inebriation.

The scent alone confirms Julian’s suspicions that it is undoctored alva wine that Kira and the vedek have been drinking. He doesn’t wince at the first sip, but it’s a close thing. The alva fruit is densely sugary and yields a wine only technically. Its alcohol content is probably high enough to serve as a respectable substitute for Klingon bloodwine.

“It’s good to see you,” Kira says. “The vedek and I were just wondering if you might show up.”

“I had hoped you might come to the services this afternoon,” Syva says.

“I’m afraid I’d rather not be so close to the Orb of Time again so quickly, no offense, Vedek,” Julian says. Alva wine almost reminds him of kanar, the way it’s sweet but still so strong.

Syva nods, unbothered. “An experience with an Orb can be jarring, even for a believer in the Prophets.” He reaches across the table to rest his hand at Julian’s wrist, just for a moment. “Part of my duty as a vedek is to listen, should you need a willing ear.”

The wine must be already getting to him. Julian tries a smile and shakes his head. “Thank you, Vedek, but I think I’m alright.”

It’s not quite the truth, but for as much as Julian likes Syva, spelling things out to him is the last thing Julian wants to do. He’d rather forget the whole incident, but Syva looks to Kira significantly. She sighs.

“I was so frustrated that the vedeks wanted the Orb here that I didn’t even think to be pleased by it. But when that man rushed in… You know what I saw? This, Julian, I saw this.” She spreads her hands out, indicating the scene around them, and Julian dutifully looks around. It’s late, and while the party’s certainly still going, it’s mostly groups of people now, mostly Bajoran, and in high spirits. “The first Peldor Festival on this station, held in secret, Bajorans burning scraps of paper because we didn’t have lanterns -- all the secret celebrations, all the ways we kept this tradition going even when no one wanted us to.” She grins wide and reckless, and then she finishes her drink. “It reminded me that no matter what, even when running this station is a chore, it’s worth it. And it will be, for as long as I’m here.”

Syva tops her glass off. “Well said.”

Julian drains his glass and lets Syva fill it as well. “Vedek, I don’t suppose you’d like to tell us what you saw?”

Syva smiles and shakes his head. “Things I’m grateful for, as befits the festival,” he says. He tops up his own glass, too. “My family, before I was born. Celebrations on Bajor. And yourself, Doctor?”

The wine really is starting to get to him. Julian takes a long drink, not looking at his companions, and considers what might be the best way to explain himself.

He and Garak _had_ been friends. Good friends, even. Aside from Miles, Garak had been Julian’s closest and dearest friend, but in a way so different from Miles that it seemed insulting to compare the two. Miles was reliably straightforward and blunt with him, and Garak had been anything but: a puzzle, a mystery, deliberately glib and suggestive.

Garak hadn’t just tolerated him; Garak had _enjoyed_ him, had sought him out, asked him his opinion on things, told him when he was wrong and delighted in Julian’s too-quick arguments and questions.

Prophets, he feels alone. Julian is surrounded by people, at least one of them a friend, and despite it all, he’s been missing something, he realizes, missing something the whole time. He considers Syva’s question and takes another drink. “I saw someone I haven’t seen in a long time,” he says. “An old friend.”

“Someone who’s still alive?” Syva asks gently.

“Yes,” Julian says, a little too strongly. He scowls at his drink. “I think. He’s a stubborn sort. If he died, I’d have heard about it.”

Syva nods. “The Orb sent you that vision for a reason. If your friend is still alive, you should--”

“He is.”

“Regardless,” Syva says, continuing implacably, “it is a sign you should offer your thanks. If not to the Prophets, then to whatever power you believe in.”

Julian is about to say something a touch more inflammatory than is advisable when Kira interrupts him. “I feel like I should get something less alcoholic after we finish this bottle,” she says. “Anyone else feeling it a little too much?”

“Perhaps,” Julian says.

“The last time I got this drunk was…” Kira shakes her head. “It was with Garak, actually. And Damar.” Hearing Kira say Garak’s name is - it sends a jolt through him. Kira whacks him on the arm. “Have you written a renewal scroll yet?”

“Not yet,” Julian admits into his drink.

“I haven’t either! Finish your drink, and let’s go do it.”

* * *

The fires are guarded by a handful of nervous-looking Starfleet officers, all too ready for someone who’s had one too many drinks to topple head-first into a flame-holder. Kira fetches them both scrolls and pens, and they manage to find a free space to write, even with the place as crowded as it is.

Kira’s scroll is dense with Bajoran script, but she smiles when she rolls it up.

“I miss him,” Julian says to his renewal scroll. “Garak, I mean.”

“Have you thought of going to visit him?” Kira shakes her head at his expression. “Don’t get me wrong, Julian, you’re an asset to the station, but we could do without you for at least a few days. And you’ve got more than enough leave time saved up. Besides, you should...spend more time with friends. You work too hard.”

“ _We’re_ friends,” he protests.

Kira looks about as surprised to hear it as he is to have said it. Then she looks thoughtful. “We are,” she agrees. “But still. When do you want leave, next week?”

Julian scowls. “I haven’t even asked him if I can come visit.”

“Why wouldn’t he say yes?”

“I haven’t been great at keeping in touch with him,” Julian admits. “Maybe he’s…busy.”

“I bet he’ll say yes. You have leave next week if you want it.” She rests her renewal scroll over the grate that rests over the torch-flame, and they watch its corners curl as they burn. “You were a good friend to him while he lived here. I remember that.”

“Probably by accident,” Julian says. He pushes his scroll into the fire besides Kira’s. “Another drink?”

“Sure.”

* * *

It’s hours later that he makes it back to his rooms, and he’s had enough to drink that even with his Augmented metabolism, the room seems to sway as he throws himself into bed.

“Computer, take dictation,” he says. The computer beeps in acknowledgement. Julian pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes.

“Hi, Garak. First I just wanted to say I’m sorry for not replying to your message, what was it, three months ago? I...kept thinking I wanted to write you back something just as long and thoughtful, but things just kept happening. This virus happened. Some other things.” He waves his hand in the air, not that Garak will be able to see it. “And now it’s been long enough that I guess nothing I have to say would be that relevant. You’re always mentioning how quickly things change on Cardassia, after all.

“I just wanted to let you know I’ll write you back something longer really soon. I just didn’t want to leave you hanging any longer without writing at least something back, even though this is a sort of stupid message. I hope you’re well, Garak.” He scrubs his hand through his hair and says, “Computer, send message on subspace as reply to Elim Garak, standard encryptions for that contact.”

“Affirmative,” says the computer. “Message sent.”

“Elim,” Julian says out loud to no one. It’s been years since he’s had cause to say Garak’s first name at all, and he can’t stop thinking of that future version of him saying it with such warmth and familiarity. At least when he’d lived on DS9, Garak had hated his first name. He’d kept it secret for years. It hadn’t even been him to tell Julian what it was, it had been Tain, Garak’s father -- not that Julian had known at the time.

Julian massages at his temples. What Syva told him in the Infirmary is getting under his skin. Garak must be alive. He was in the vision Julian saw of himself in the future, after all, and if Garak _had_ died, surely Julian would have heard?

Or would he have? It wasn’t as if he was listed as Garak’s family or anything, and Cardassia had been so overwhelmed by recovery efforts that it wasn’t as if whatever regional government it was that Garak lived under would be going out of their way to notify a random member of the Federation that someone he’d once been friends with had died. “Computer,” Julian says; the computer beeps in reply. “Search Cardassian public news logs for any mention of Elim Garak.”

“Searching,” the computer replies. After a few minutes, “No mentions in public logs about Elim Garak.”

“New message to Elim Garak, mark priority. Garak, this is ridiculous of me, but you know me. Could you just -- if it’s not too much trouble -- just reply to this as soon as you can? It’s a long story, but it’s been a very weird day, and I’d just like to know you’re still alive down there.” He sighs. “And, um, this isn’t -- you don’t have to reply to _this_ part, but Commander Kira offered me leave for most of next week. You’re probably busy, but if you’re not… Computer, send message, standard encryption for this contact.”

“Affirmative. Message sent.”

Julian groans at the ceiling. He already feels like an idiot, but at least it’s done with. He rolls over, tugs his topsheet over his face, and counts his breaths until he slips off into sleep.

* * *

Julian wakes with less of a headache than he’d expected and a reply from Garak.

“Computer, send leave request for the following dates to Commander Kira…”

* * *

Cardassia’s air is dry but, after years of work, clean. 

And there’s -- there’s Garak. Waiting there for him at the edge of the landing pad.

Garak looks older than he did when Julian last saw him in real life, but younger than in the dream or the vision or whatever the damned thing was. 

Before Garak can say anything, Julian lifts his palm in what he hopes is a passable invitation to yut’mer. Garak’s eyes widen a little, and he tips his head back in consideration, and for a sinking moment, Julian thinks he’s been too presumptuous, that a greeting for loved ones is too much, but then, finally, Garak nearly smiles. He presses his palm to Julian’s slowly, deliberately, his fingers lining up against Julian’s.

“I missed you,” he tells Garak. “I don’t think I realized how much until right now, but I -- I missed you.”

“How straightforward,” Garak murmurs. He pulls his hand away. Julian’s better at reading Garak’s expressions than he used to be, when he was brand new to the station and half-convinced Garak really was going to slit his throat in the night, but this expression is something new to see. A little intrigued, a little wary. “I’m...glad to see you, Doctor.” He offers his elbow. “Shall we?”

Julian rests his hand on Garak’s forearm, and he follows.


End file.
